


Hummed Low

by baekyall



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baekyall/pseuds/baekyall
Summary: Jongdae just wanted to have fun at the midwinter festival to celebrate the end of the darkest days. He didn’t think that his singing, dancing, and jumping over the bonfire would attract the attention of the spirit of winter. And he really should have known better than to dance with him.





	Hummed Low

**Author's Note:**

> \- Prompt #: T126  
\- Pairing: Xiumin/Chen  
\- Monster(s): The spirit of winter  
\- Rating: Teen and Up Audiences  
\- Warning(s): some homophobia, mentions of vomit, alcohol, vaguely unclear start to relationship  
\- Word Count: 8889  
\- Author's Note: Hi! I apologize if this fic is a little short, but I hope it's interesting and enjoyable to read! Thank you so much to the prompter for giving me this lovely, lovely prompt (and a stellar summary hehe). Without your wonderful idea, I wouldn't have been able to conjure up anything half as magical as this little story. I really, really hope you like it! Also, thank you to the mods who were so kind, understanding, and lovely throughout this entire process. It's been really nice working with you guys, and I'm grateful for all you! Anyways, happy reading!!! ❤️

Jongdae feels the stinging pain in his hands first. It travels up his forearms and settles in his shoulders quickly enough, throbbing and familiar, the same as every year. He closes his eyes against the sun rising in the distance, muting the dull twinge of a headache forming.

Dragging these jugs of wine from the storage at the edge of the village  _ should’ve _ been Sehun or Chanyeol’s job, for their strength outweighs his easily, and their wide shoulders carry heavier loads each day on the construction sites, but they’re too busy repairing a fence for the Choi family to be of much use with this project. Instead, Jongdae had offered to fill in for them both, forcing his younger brother Jongin along with him into the chill of the early morning.

He’s exhausted and it’s barely even light out, but a rush of work always hits their village as their night to host the midwinter festival grows closer -- and with three other villages paying a visit tonight, there is much to do, after all, especially if the evening is to be as enchanting as the village head has promised. 

The festivities start the day before the full moon and continue into the next two nights, entire celebration kept alight by her pale face glancing down on them, with only the rarest alcohols and provisions saved for the third night. Jongdae had learned it when he was young, the reason for the importance of this third and final night -- it takes only hours for the full moon to become not-so-full on the second night, its light diminishing with each minute after its peak, and by the third, even an untrained eye can spot the hollow blush of darkness creeping back across her face.

As this moonlight fades slowly, so does the harshness of winter, the line between the world of the spirits and their own diminishing along with it. The full moon passes gently, and the third night bids farewell to the darkest days of the year, makes room for spring and sunshine, and invites the spirits to dance along with them all. 

And this year, their village gets to host the third and final night; after the two previous nights of drinking and dancing in the surrounding villages and arriving home only hours before the dawn, Jongdae is both exhausted and exhilarated at the thought of the bonfire blazing in his own town center, of hundreds welcoming in the spring together, only steps from his home. 

“Don’t lag behind, Jongdae,” his brother’s voice weighs him down further, dragging him from his stupor forcefully, and suddenly he’s aware of just how slow his pace is, how he teeters with each step. “We should finish early so we have time to rest before tonight. The pretty girls won’t want you if you look so feeble.” 

_ I don’t care too much _ , Jongdae wants to respond in disdain, though he knows Jongin will never take him seriously, will never believe that there’s more to life than impressing foolish girls.  _ The pretty girls will be more interested in the wine and music than scrawny teenagers like you, anyway.  _

“I’m not feeble -- just not built to haul things across the village like a mule. I’m training to be a healer for a  _ reason _ . My value is in my mind.” 

“I doubt it’s because of your physique,” Jongin laughs from ahead of him. “You just like flowers and herbs and,  _ mostly, _ feeling important. And you probably like all the naked drawings in the medical books, pervert.” 

A bead of sweat trickles down Jongin’s broad back, the boy wide and tall despite his young age, despite his childish temper. Jongdae watches its path across his brother’s thin shirt, scrunching his nose against the sweat that threatens to leap from his brow, too. To be both cold and sweaty is Jongdae’s own personal hell, and he curses the thick furs that insulate him against the frigid wind, hates the sun that makes his blood boil without any care for the season. 

“ _ No _ , I like helping people. You should hold your tongue if you have nothing kind to say, especially since you have no future prospects. At least I’m working toward something other than a girl’s hand in marriage.” 

Jongin doesn’t respond, only shakes his head and mimics Jongdae’s tone, mocking the insult entirely -- just as he’s done since they were children. Jongdae can’t help but frown again, slightly annoyed at Jongin’s attitude, still feeling crushed under the conflicting temperatures and the wine dragging his shoulders down. 

He  _ really _ wants his part of this back-breaking work to finish as early in the day as possible, for he knows that there are countless herbs and flowers to collect in order to complete some of the recipes for the feast tonight, to concoct the soup everyone will need to nurse their hangovers, to prepare salve for the inevitable injuries that will come from this evening’s festivities.

Yixing, the Zhang’s boy in charge of overseeing his medicinal apprenticeship, won’t go easy on him today, no matter how tired he insists he is, no matter how his forehead gleams with sweat despite the cold. 

They're back to the center of the village once again, small houses and brick furnaces lining the road, piles of wood and baskets of offerings resting on the stone walls between properties. Jongdae would give anything to set down the wine and lean against those very stones, freezing cold and lined in frosted moss, soothing against his lack of air and overabundance of heat. 

Instead, he continues down the stone-paved road, eyes blurring with the colors and shapes that dash to and fro across their path, head spinning with the voices of his neighbors.

He's bombarded with the thick scent of spices and cooking rice, with the sound of loud voices and laughter -- everyone is waking up now, no matter what happened the night before, no matter how their heads or bodies must ache. The morning sun has brought the quiet village back to life, babies squalling for attention as mothers coo back. 

Young children rush to fill buckets with water for their bath, voices high-pitched and sweet as they gather together in one of the bigger courtyards, cheeks pink from the cold. Hosting a festival gives them reason to look as nice as possible, especially if they hope to leap across the bonfire and sing with the fairies tonight. 

"I need a bath, too. I feel gross now," Jongin turns around for a brief moment, plush lips pouting and shoulders slumped. "Are you working today? Or should I tell mother to get a bowl out for you since it's a holiday?" 

"Working, of course.” 

A girl squeals in the distance, tiny voice filled with fright and glee at the same time -- she’s avoiding being splashed playfully with frigid water, and it’s a rather fond sight to brighten this early morning exhaustion. It almost distracts Jongdae from the finger poking into his ribs. 

  
“Working, _ of course _ ,” Jongin mimics, and his finger dances to the beat of his own voice, prickling against Jongdae’s side. It’s annoying, but he can only see a tiny boy throwing water at his sibling, can only feel a familiar happiness at the childish actions. “You always say you work, work, work, but, you know, I’ve seen you and Yixing fooling around before. I’ve seen you two giggling in the corner of the market. I  _ know _ everything. You are rather lazy.” 

“You know  _ nothing _ .” 

And he wants to say more, to defend himself against what Jongin is accusing, but then the taller boy is reaching a hand out, palm upward and waiting. Jongdae watches him, confused, looking for an explanation in the hand stretched before him. 

Soon it becomes clear -- Jongdae can’t help but smile when Jongin sighs angrily and grabs for the handle of the wine in his grasp. 

“Give it,” he is surprisingly serious, concerningly kind. Jongdae relinquishes it readily, entirely too excited to avoid this responsibility and the pain it brings. “Run off to Yixing and work on your magical potions together. It’ll be faster if you’re gone, after all.” 

“If I could brew magic potions, I would be nice and make you one. I promise you wouldn’t still look like  _ that _ .” 

He laughs at the anger that blooms red as roses on Jongin’s youthful face, giggles as he dashes into the center of the village toward the familiar cottage that holds his flowers and herbs and Yixing. 

\-- 

The wind is much colder in the night, even when there are hundreds of bodies huddled together against it. Jongdae shivers despite the raging bonfire that dances on and seeks the warmth of the sun even as the traces of day fade completely. The frigid air tastes bitter in the back of Jongdae’s throat, and so he chases it away with sweet wine, more than happy to be rewarded for this morning’s awful effort of transporting it all. 

He’d recounted his toil to Yixing earlier that morning and earned only a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before he was rushed to prepare some salve for the potential burns that come with a bonfire -- and Jongdae had obliged, too excited for the night’s prospects to argue against Yixing’s orders. Now he stands in the midst of hundreds, surrounded by the warmth that comes with food and wine and festivities, all stress from earlier today completely forgotten as he finds friends from neighboring villages and welcomes them happily. 

“You smell like wine,” whispers Byun Baekhyun, a long-time friend and apprentice clothes maker from a nearby village, his face far too close for comfort. “You seem drunk, Jongdae.” 

“And so do you. Overwhelmingly drunk, actually.”

Baekhyun’s cheeks are red with all the night has to offer, but not shame -- he is proud of his ability to hold alcohol, to tease his friends and blend into this raucous scene so easily. 

“I was going to say something rather mean back, but I’ve decided to refrain,” Baekhyun’s breath fans across his face, sickly sweet and warm, and Jongdae flinches when he feels Baekhyun’s lips against his cheek, purposefully lingering as he plants a wet kiss on his cheekbone. “If only because I know you will sing for us all later and make up for your horrid, horrid personality with your voice.” 

“Save your sloppy kisses for someone else, please,” Jongdae pushes him away, laughter lost in the surrounding noise, voice swallowed whole by the pair of bodies that Jongdae recognizes from the corner of his eye. 

An embroiderer whom Chanyeol threw up on only two nights ago is laughing in the tall boy’s face openly, a pleasant conversation winding its way around the both of them, pushing them closer. Jongdae has seen this before, has noticed the way young couples gravitate toward each other on nights like these -- he senses that they are the same in the way they smile, in the way they react to each other. 

“Our Chanyeol and your boy are getting along again?” Jongdae asks it coyly, knowing full well that the Park’s only son is almost as chronic a flirt as his own brother, especially on cold nights like this when wine is flows easily and body heat longs to be shared. “It’s not been two days since they fought about cleaning up vomit.” 

“What are you mumbling about?” Baekhyun’s eyes scan for said boys, eyes stalling on the pair rather easily. “Oh, I see.”

The pair huddles together in laughter, their words lost to the sea of sound they wade in. Even with Baekhyun’s presence beside him, sipping leisurely and talking freely, Jongdae feels rather cold in this moment. 

“Also, to clarify, Kyungsoo is not  _ my _ boy; he’s just a few years younger than me,” Jongdae leans further in Baekhyun’s half-hearted embrace, suddenly tired and shivering more than he should be. “I mentor him.”

Chanyeol steps forward to whisper a question, and then Kyungsoo is looking at the floor, nodding, pleased smile settling into the happy lines of his face. Watching their exchange from afar with a tinge of jealousy, Jongdae suppresses the thoughts of having someone to giggle at him and steal his warmth. It’s dangerous to daydream about, for he knows that it will not be happening, especially not in the way he longs for -- not in the way that his parents and brother may despise. 

He tries to avoid thinking of what his family would say if they knew he longed for affection and companionship in the way Chanyeol longs for that embroiderer’s. He tries not to think of the way the temperature has suddenly dropped, far too cold to stand comfortably in -- he aches with the wind and something else, something he fears to name. 

Baekhyun feels the need to amend his remarks about Kyungsoo suddenly, and it makes Jongdae giggle hearing the fervor in his voice.

“And he has an insatiable need to be favored by tall men. I’ll never understand it.” 

  
  


“I think otherwise,” Jongdae sways to the rising tempo of the music and Baekhyun’s clumsy footsteps follow a beat behind, hands grasping for purchase on Jongdae’s shoulders -- they’re cold, and he yelps at the contact. “Stop that! And I think you understand rather well, actually --” 

“I am not listening to you. I refuse to. I only have energy left to dance. Come, Jongdae, dance with me.” 

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then Jongdae is pushing Baekhyun’s limbs from around his neck, untangling themselves from each other in order to join the throng of people dancing. The night drags into the dredges of pitch black -- even the full moon can do little compared to the bonfire -- and Jongdae can’t feel his hands very well anymore, but that’s more than fine, for he only needs his legs to leap over the bonfire, and he only needs a voice in order to sing the songs he grew up listening to, the ones that tell of the spirits of the seasons, ancient and powerful and gorgeous beyond belief. 

For one moment in his life, Jongdae is truly carefree and beautiful -- his smile shines like the freshly fallen snow, his laugh as enchanting as the crunching of frosted grass under weathered boots. And when he sings with that voice, when he dances with such grace, when he leaps over the bonfire and lands in the arms of his beloved friends and family, he is aglow with affection.

It is when the fire has been fed for the third time that evening and Baekhyun has disappeared to find a dancing partner that Jongdae realizes he is being watched. 

At first, he suspects it is Jongin -- it would not be out of character for his foolish brother to jump from the trees to scare him, leaving him to respond with only the gentlest kind of annoyance. But when he sees his brother’s silhouette outlined against the burning red of the fire, a girl twirling around his form gleefully, his mind starts to wander. 

A wolf would never venture so close to such a large group of screaming, fire-wielding civilians, surely, though there is no telling who has decided to take refuge in the frosted woods behind the village. The child in him knows, for a moment, that it is the spirits watching their ceremony -- the adult in him rationalizes that it is probably a deer, and so he finishes the wine in his grasp and dawdles back toward everyone else. 

The feeling of eyes persists for a minute longer, and Jongdae tries (rather unsuccessfully) to infiltrate a conversation between some transcribers from the farthest village in order to shake the feeling. He quips in about a flower identification journal he’d just finished reading, and before the men can answer his question about how they make each illustration uniform, there is a cold hand on his shoulder. 

It holds him softly, gently, and Jongdae knows instinctively that he has never met this person in his life. When he turns around, he understands why.

The man before him is more of a painting than a person, delicate strokes of white and gold blending together on his supple cheeks, light pink dipping into his soft lips. He is short, shorter than Jongdae even, but his eyes are intense and wonderfully warm. For a moment, this stranger seems to tower over him, seems to command all attention to his youthful features and pretty proportions. 

“You are a beautiful singer,” the man says it carefully, as though he’s testing out the words as he speaks them, as though Jongdae is the first person he’s conversed with in years. “I heard you earlier.”

His voice itself is light and sweet, and hidden in it is a prick of cold air that sends a shiver down Jongdae’s spine. Something about him is odd, but he likes it, enjoys the sight before him, the compliment that makes his cheeks burn. 

“Oh, thank you so much,” Jongdae knows he is cold, well aware he was shivering only moments ago, but now his body is signaling that is alight with heat, consumed wholly by the blush that this stranger’s smile causes. “I am sure yours is much lovelier. I am Kim Jongdae. I live here, in the smallest of the three villages -- it’s rather lovely, right? Is it your first time to visit? I do not remember seeing you in previous years, and I have been going  _ all _ my life.” 

He has rambled far too much, he fears -- but the stranger only smiles an overly pretty smile, his eyes upturned with a fondness that makes Jongdae wonder if maybe fate has decided to treat him kindly for one night. 

“I’ve been before, though I’m normally not in the midst of it all,” as he speaks, the man’s hand trails down his shoulder and arm, lingering in the air with poised fingers. Jongdae had almost forgotten his touch lingered; he’d grown accustomed to it in their minute of conversation. “You may call me Minseok.”

Jongdae cannot do much else but study the small fingers that hover above his hand, their well-maintained nails and freedom from injuries indicating that he is a rich man -- a learned man -- and it only makes his interest pique. 

“That is a nice name, truly,” he speaks quieter than he means to, and he tries not to let the surprise show on his face when Minseok takes a step closer to hear him, eyes vibrant and dancing from the light of the bonfire. “I am glad to have met you, Minseok.”

“My hand,” their fingers touch, and maybe it was the push of the wind, or maybe Jongdae allowed himself to stray too close to Minseok’s purposefully. “Will you accept it?” 

Jongdae knows full well what he is asking, and he can’t help the pleased thrill of joy that strangles him in the second after it is asked. He has longed for a different kind of company all night, has drank away the awkward loneliness he feels and sang with all that he had to give. But now he is being offered more, and it is surreal. Minseok is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, a foreign type of handsome, his entire presence glittering along with the moon -- and he is  _ asking _ for his hand. 

“Yes,” a pause, and Jongdae is tries to catch a frigid breath as Minseok hand fits against his. “I would love to dance.” 

The palm of a stranger feels strange against his own, but he grows used to it as they wade further into the crowd, as they sway to the music and forget the way the winter wind attacks them so. When he is with Minseok, he feels oddly warm, increasingly comfortable -- shielded from it all, held in unfamiliar arms that spin him. 

It feels strange to dance with someone he doesn’t really know, to let their bodies spin and find each other in the middle of a crowd of strangers, to laugh loudly in the face of someone he’d only met a few minutes ago. 

But Minseok is sweeter than the wine they drink, cold nose ticklish against Jongdae’s cheek when he leans in to whisper words Jongdae cannot recognize, when he pulls him closer and charms him further with batting eyes of dark brown. 

“You are enchanting,” Minseok smiles as he says it, tender and warm, somehow burning brighter than the raging fire behind him. “As beautiful as your voice.” 

And, for some reason -- the alcohol, most likely, though he thinks it could be his own foolish heart -- Jongdae doesn’t question his sincerity. He only smiles back, ready to court the spirits, bid farewell to cold, and welcome the spring flowers with Minseok by his side, if possible. 

\-- 

Jongdae jumps awake, head in throbbing pain. He’s screaming too, acutely aware of the blow he’s taken to the head -- someone is trying to kill him -- he knows this positively. If not, there would be no reason for the resounding sound of a hand smacking at his cheeks and the lingering ache from a hit to the head. 

“Get up!” 

Jongin’s voice is the last thing he longs to hear at the moment, but at least now it is clear that no one is attempting to murder him. There is only a younger brother with no regard for his pain tolerance, willing to slap the back of his head until he startles, standing in his room. 

“What is wrong with you --” he starts to complain, but Jongin’s knuckles are pressed harshly against his shoulder a second later, stopping him in his tracks. He lands another smack across the crown of Jongdae’s head, and he leaps out of bed in anger. “Jongin, stop that! I’ll beat --” 

“ _ What _ have you done?” 

Jongin’s voice is truly angry, and the room stills in the seconds after he speaks. It is far too silent so suddenly, but Jongdae cannot breathe when he hears the tone of his brother’s voice, when he realizes there is something more to be said than just aggravated insults. 

“What?” 

“There’s a man in the kitchen, claiming to be betrothed to you -- the thought of it made mother almost faint -- and he will not  _ leave _ ! He says you will understand, that he is promised to you -- that he has secrets he must share with only you. What have you  _ done _ ?” 

Jongdae does not know how to respond, fear striking every cell in his body at once, his heart matching a dangerous tempo -- meeting Minseok, dancing in the cold, drinking too much wine, whispering compliments and promises that he can’t remember. 

He stands without responding to his younger brother, hurrying to the kitchen in a panic he’s never felt before, and will never feel again, most likely. The wine from last night has left a disgusting taste in his mouth and, with the anxiety this wake-up call has induced, he fears it won’t be long before he sees the alcohol once again -- he’s rather queasy already. 

“Jongdae,” his mother’s voice scares him most of all, and he wonders if he should’ve stayed in his room after all. “Jongdae, explain.” 

He cannot. He can only stare at Minseok’s smiling face, marvel at the way he blends into their small kitchen, and fear the way he moves forward to meet him in the doorway as if he’d been waiting desperately for far too long.  _ Ludicrous _ , Jongdae thinks, head spinning,  _ this is all a dream.  _

“You’re awake!” 

Jongdae grabs his arm, just as Minseok had done to him the night before, and takes the biggest steps he can in order to escape this room as quickly as possible. Outside it is cold in this early dawn, and Jongdae’s socks do little against the dewy grass, but he doesn’t care, not when Minseok frets over it for him, his voice concerned as he points out where Jongdae is standing. 

“Be careful, Jongdae, you’ll --” 

“Are you crazy? Genuinely, are you insane?”

Minseok looks up from the wet grass, eyes wide at the accusation, and Jongdae instantly feels guilty for the harsh tone he took. He can’t  _ help _ it though, for there is no logical explanation for this man showing up to his house in the early morning after one meeting, after a few dances, after a night of speaking and laughing -- love cannot be grown in one night, he knows that well enough, and Minseok has come to reap the harvest almost immediately. 

“Why are you at my house? Why are you in the village? Did you not go back home last night?” Jongdae is overwhelmed, and he is blabbing again, but he knows Minseok finds it much less endearing this time around. “What made you think we are engaged? That’s not how it works here. I need to marry a woman and have children like my family wants me to. And I am a healer-in-training, of all things, I cannot be preoccupied with some foolish prank you decide to pull because of one night -- I don’t understand why --” 

“We  _ are _ engaged,” Minseok is not outwardly angry, but there is a certainty in his voice that makes Jongdae laugh out loud, almost -- in the end he is too scared to commit to the giggle that threatens to escape and settles on a choking noise of panic instead. “You accepted my hand, remember? I asked you.” 

“Your hand to  _ dance _ ! Not to be wed.” 

The air around them seems to turn stale, and Jongdae can’t breathe very well anymore with all the fear that has taken residence in his stomach, throat, heart -- also, his toes are cold, but he’ll be damned before he admits that he wants to go back inside. 

“I told you last night of my identity. I told you of our customs, of the legends you  _ should _ know -- I was only able to ask for your hand because we are connected in some way. It would be rude of me to propose to someone who I know will not affect my life, but you  _ will _ . And you were calling out to me, that’s how I knew to approach you, it’s why we felt so connected --” 

It’s almost funny. It feels familiar, hearing him speak of these legends, of the rules from where he is from, as it almost sounds like all the fairy tales Jongdae had been told as a child. He remembers some of them rather well -- spirits are immortal, but they will fall in love with humans from time to time, ones that call out to them, ones that are intertwined with their destiny, ones that have been fated to shine the brightest during festivals. 

Jongdae starts to laugh under his breath, knowing far too well the rest of the legend. Spirits will find their human, will dance with them and make a pact of marriage almost instantly, for their love is guaranteed -- and a human’s agreement is seen as returning the love, as a promise for the rest of their life. 

If he was a fool, he would believe Minseok is fated to love him, that Minseok is the spirit of winter, that there is real magic in the world, that spirits do attend the festivals dedicated to them and that, sometimes, they find their destiny standing by the edge of the forest. 

But he is not a fool; he believes in medicine, in science, in the properties that nature gives him to heal the sick. As for Minseok’s gibberish, there is no  _ explanation _ for it all. 

He laughs no more -- instead, his mind fills with anger, betrayal on the tip of his tongue. Of course, the nice man who had shown interest in him at the bonfire would be a cruel trickster -- in hindsight, it’s painfully obvious that Jongdae would attract the worst of the worst to his side. 

“You are blatantly lying to me. It’s not funny, Minseok. You’re ruining your chances of even keeping a friendship with me by pulling stunts like these -- it is not  _ amusing _ ! Do you understand? Leave my family and my home alone in all of this, it’s just cruel --”

“Jongdae, I would not lie to you.”

Minseok looks to the ground purposefully, and Jongdae is scared to follow his gaze, for he knows something is wrong with his feet -- they are unbelievably cold, and he can’t move his toes at all. When he garners the bravery to peek at them, they are encased in a block of ice that had no way of forming in the last five minutes, not logically, not without the help of a great deity. 

Jongdae throws up. Minseok screams in panic. Jongin’s head peeks through the doorway. 

\--

Now he sits uncomfortably on his bed, worried about all that’s happened, fearing for the way his mind has adapted so quickly to the idea of spirits and magic and legends being real. It seems to take only hours before he is convinced that, maybe, Minseok is telling the truth -- their magnetic first meeting hadn’t made much sense until it was explained in that way, and Jongdae can’t help but believe the blocks of ice Minseok had crafted so easily. He feels as though he’s lost his mind completely. 

Even if it is all true, he only hopes to avoid the fate that Minseok insists exists between them -- he fears it most of all, for it would let down his mother’s hopes, and he’d be branded odd by his village, no matter the story of Minseok’s origin.

When it begins to grow dark and he sneaks a look through his window, noticing a familiar silhouette sitting out front, Jongdae decides he will do the best thing he can: take Minseok in for the night, convince him to never return, and be done with it all in the morning. 

“Mother, I don’t know how to explain everything, but I think he should come inside. It’s cold.” 

Rationally thinking, Jongdae should not be so worried about the man outside of the house. It may be freezing, but he  _ knows _ that Minseok is immune to things like that, that he can control the temperature around him if he so pleases -- still, it tugs on his heart uncomfortably to know he’s left a human outside in the cold while he hides away. 

“He woke me up before sunrise got the chance. He said you were betrothed. And when you spoke to him, you vomited. The neighbors keep coming to the back entrance to let us know there is a  _ stranger _ in our yard! You think I want him in my house?” 

Jongin laughs at her words loudly. Jongdae just wishes he’d stayed home instead of going to the festival -- he should’ve known something this mortifying would happen to him. 

“Mother, please, he was probably still drunk this morning,” Jongdae knows it is a lie, but he cannot think of magic and spirits as completely real -- not yet -- and doubts his mother will either. “Will you leave him to freeze?” 

“Do you intend to marry him?” her eyes are sharp; lucky for her, Jongdae is easily cut. 

“Mother, why must you take it so seriously? Of course I would not --” 

“I am not stupid, Jongdae. I  _ know _ you do not long for a wife. And I love you still. But this man is  _ odd. _ He needs to leave, not be invited inside. I will not house your nuisances.” 

It is too uncomfortable to stay inside after that. Jongin has stilled, too, and both brothers are shocked at her bluntness, at the casual way she’d dismantled every secret Jongdae thought he’d been keeping. 

“You would not believe me if I told you what was happening,” Jongdae says it quietly, and he hopes his mother feels guilty. He hopes Jongin still cares for him. Most of all, he hopes he will be able to leave this situation immediately. “I will take care of  _ all _ my nuisances, then.” 

“Jongd --” Jongin’s voice is cut off by the heavy wooden door. 

Jongdae is effectively alone in the chilly dusk of his village, finally able to breathe, to forget the things his mother has said. For a blissful moment, it is only him and the muted purple sky. But then he remembers the man sitting on the ground a few feet away and glances to see that Minseok’s eyes are lighting up and he’s stumbling to his feet, crunching leaves with heavy steps as he moves. 

It has been only hours since he’d last faced him (covered in his own bile with frozen toes) but he still feels a bit of relief flowing in his veins at the knowledge that Minseok is here, that he longs to be next to him no matter the circumstances. 

“You are back,” Minseok smiles, and his hands are reaching out to hold Jongdae’s naturally -- they are cold and Jongdae shivers, but he doesn’t mind too much. 

“I made you wait for hours. I’m sorry. I was trying to convince my mother to let you in.” 

Jongdae uses their connected hands to drag him away from the view of the village, toward a dirt path that runs diagonally along the woods. Here, they can be alone -- and here, Jongdae knows, Minseok can stay until he figures it all out. 

“I have infinite lifetimes to live -- hours are nothing, not when I am waiting for you.”

For a fleeting moment, Jongdae thinks that maybe destiny could be real. Maybe it is the kindness in Minseok’s voice or the way he believes his words with no qualms. Perhaps it is the way his anger and shame from earlier are soothed by such simple words. 

Instead of lingering on the thought, he asks Minseok too many questions about his abilities, about the magic that sprouts out of his fingertips, about the chill that follows him as he walks. They wind through the forest and the sky grows darker and darker as they trek, but Jongdae fears nothing when Minseok is by his side, he’s found. 

As Minseok coats a leaf in frost on command, Jongdae realizes that, should it all be true, fate is rather cruel -- Minseok will inevitably kill all the flowers he holds dear, and he will never be able to warm Minseok up as he wishes he could.

“Out here, there is a place you can stay,” Jongdae takes the now-white leaf from Minseok’s grasp, studying it carefully. “It’s an abandoned cottage from long ago, but you feel no cold, so it will be fine. At least here I can visit you -- and we can fix it up if you _ insist _ on staying.” 

Minseok smiles and it warms Jongdae more than the bonfire ever could, somehow. 

\--

Flowers and herbs have always fascinated Jongdae, and he’s always hoped to learn their properties, to become a fine healer for the village -- and now that he is trying to repair an abandoned cottage, he knows that he was right all along in avoiding the manual labor side of things. 

It’s been over two weeks since he’d taken Minseok out here, and he is gradually losing his sense of peace with the situation.

He is tired, his back aches, and the walls still look sad -- though at least the floor and walls have been cleaned, he reasons. Jongdae frowns at the crooked way the house stands, frustrated with his lack of experience and, mostly, Minseok’s lack of worry. 

“I will not be harmed by the elements or animals,” he assures for the thousandth time, and, once again, it goes in one ear and out the other for the healer. “This is enough for me. You can visit me, still.” 

It is  _ not _ enough, for Jongdae knows all too well that the only reason Minseok is still here, in the woods, is because he truly, devoutly believes that he is meant to be here, that Jongdae is his destiny. 

He won’t leave -- refuses to budge from his place at Jongdae’s side -- and, as much as Jongdae hates to admit it, Minseok has grown on him like vines on this forsaken house. He enjoys his company more than he wants to and finds himself drawn to the spirit magnetically, a force of nature seemingly taking over him, too. A fool would call it fate.

“It is in my nature to nurture, to try and make this better,” Jongdae’s head is in his hands, and he doesn’t want to look up. He knows Minseok will make those eyes, the ones that comfort him easily, and he will break the unspoken rule of keeping his distance. “It is my fault you won’t leave, and I’ve forced you into the middle of the woods -- it is awful.” 

“It is enough for me if you’re here,” Minseok says the same thing he always does, and Jongdae’s heart jumps all the same, used to the shameless words, uncomfortable with the way he sometimes thinks them back. “I’m not lying.” 

Jongdae looks up to study his pretty features, to look into his eyes as he speaks with his melodic voice, hoping it will soothe him as it usually does. 

“How many times have you done this -- I mean, how many times have you found  _ the one _ ?” 

Jongdae asks it because he wants to know; he worries about it constantly, fears that he is the least interesting, most uncooperative person Minseok has ever courted. Sometimes, he thinks that Minseok must regret this all, must look at the cottage he sits in, must see Jongdae’s panicked movements and listen to Jongdae’s involuntary rants, wishing all the same he had never approached him at all. 

“I have loved and been loved many times,” Minseok moves forward very suddenly, confident in ways that Jongdae cannot fathom -- he tenses as fingertips brush across his face, gentle and reserved, a clear indicator that Minseok is being completely serious. “It’s always different. It’s always worth it. My life has no indicator of time -- hours, days, years all flow together easily when you have no limit. But I know that, when I am here with someone -- with you -- I am happy.” 

Jongdae looks around at the scene before him and thinks he might cry. It is ridiculous, he knows, but he is sure that Minseok has lived opulent lives with willing partners, has danced with more people than Jongdae knows, has kissed for years on end. And he danced that night looking for the same, for someone to adore, and is left standing in the woods, a pitiful medic trying his best to repair it all. 

“Does it make you sad?” Minseok’s hand is spread full across his face now, holding his cheek with a softness that is unrivaled, that Jongdae doesn’t long for with anyone else. “My life is too long, I know. Sometimes I get tired of it, too -- but at least, when I am with you, I get to slow down for a moment. I get to treat you like I have never treated anyone before you.” 

They linger in the middle of this rotting house, in the middle of the frozen forest, and Jongdae studies the hidden warmth of Minseok’s lips with his own as long as he lets himself, tearing away at last with a fear that he has fallen into the trap destiny set, that he will never value anyone else as he values Minseok. 

A moment of silence passes and they breathe slowly against each other, hearts hammering, hands shaking -- Jongdae has never wanted something so much, has never yearned to be felt and loved. So he launches forward and kisses across Minseok’s cheek slowly, hardly breathing as he finally aligns their lips once again, even slower than before.

This is an ugly place, but Minseok is beautiful. For once, Jongdae doesn’t mind the cold, not when Minseok is hovering above him, mouth warmer than the sun and hands as wicked as the wind. 

He has never been one to be afraid of a moment being ruined, as he does it so easily and so frequently that there is no shame in an awkward joke or offhand comment -- but now he realizes how sacred a moment can be, how Minseok’s laughter would sound melodic and beautiful right now. Now, he realizes, that a moment like this cannot be ruined by such little things, not when Minseok’s hands move from his waist to his shirt, when they wind together in ways that makes Jongdae gasp.

It is slow and too warm, overly hot, a mess of inexperience and hormones on Jongdae’s behalf, and overwhelming satisfaction from Minseok -- they move together on the floor of the cottage, stuttered and loud. Jongdae is acutely aware that he has all his clothes still on, that there is no skin touching but their lips, but that Minseok’s movements and weight on top of him is enough for now -- he closes his eyes against the sunlight drifting in from the holes in the roof. 

Jongdae has never been so much a flustered love bird as the moment when he freezes, caught in sudden bliss, and Minseok kisses him gently as he arches away from it all. It’s so soon, so abrupt, so  _ embarrassing _ , he knows, but then he opens his eyes as Minseok’s sweet voice turns rough, and he knows he is not alone. They are together, and the winter air is boiling. 

They lay for minutes or maybe hours -- the haze of kisses and random conversations that ensues afterwards blurs the time, so he can’t be sure -- but in one moment of clarity, Jongdae realizes that it is almost dusk. 

Panicking, he explains that he must leave before dinner so his mother doesn’t get suspicious, and Minseok kisses him one more time, soft and gentle. On the cold walk home, Jongdae realizes he doesn’t care if spring will ever come again -- the flowers blooming in his chest, the rose that decorates his cheeks, it will be enough. 

It is a terrifying thought, but he thinks it all the same. 

\--

Three more weeks pass in a similar manner, sneaky and romantic, whirlwind and frightening -- to him, Minseok is warmer than ever. But no matter how he tries to ignore the truth, even Jongdae has started to notice the effect Minseok has on the village. 

“It’s so cold still, even as the sun stays up longer and longer -- I worry we will have a late winter this year,” Sehun sounds disappointed at the prospect, and Jongdae nods uncomfortably, knowing a little too much about the cause. “Earlier, Chanyeol and I were contracted to build a fence down the river, and their village is almost pleasant. It is only us who suffers.” 

“I only hope it doesn’t affect the herbs and flowers,” Yixing pipes up from the back, voice as concerned as Sehun’s. “It will be awful if we have to start buying the majority of our ingredients. We’ll run out of money far too quickly.” 

The two men grumble some more on the matter, voices downtrodden and angry with the lingering cold and the delay of their long-awaited spring. Jongdae knows, deep down, that he is the cause, that only his words will solve their village’s issues. He dreads it all. 

“Yixing, may I take my midday meal earlier than usual? I don’t feel well and I think some food would help.” 

Sehun looks at him with narrowed eyes, studying him thoroughly, and before Yixing can respond to his request, the tall builder is nodding. 

“He looks awful. You should probably let him.” 

He is grateful for the support in leaving work slightly early, but he can’t help the annoyance that settles in his chest at how quickly Sehun denounced his physical state, at how eager he was to say he looked bad. 

“Feel free to, Jongdae,” Yixing is holding his shoulder as he always does, comforting and kind, and it takes the sting off of Sehun’s earlier insults. “Health comes first. How will you make medicine for others if you’re sick?” 

“Thank you, Yixing,” he smiles kindly to him, truly grateful for the chance to sneak out. “Oh, and you too, Sehun. I hope your day goes well.” 

Growing up together and sharing Jongin as a playmate in the summer was their only connection and, yet, Jongdae resists the urge to stick his tongue out as he unties his apron. Sehun nods back, and then Jongdae is back in the cold air, headed to the forest that hides Minseok and his makeshift cottage. 

The walk is long, and it is all because Jongdae follows the path more slowly than he usually would, mind filled with all the possibilities of harm he could bring the village and the people he cares for. Deep down he knows Minseok  _ shouldn’t _ be here still, but there is an attachment that Jongdae cannot help but to own -- he hadn’t meant to become enchanted, to covet Minseok’s attention and touches. 

It is selfish, he knows, but he can’t stand to lose him, not when he finally  _ understands _ why the world made them for each other, when he longs for all that Minseok does -- and, maybe, even more. A branch snaps as he steps on it, and he pauses to stomp it a few more times, melodrama of the situation brewing in his mind and projecting itself as violence. 

He will be solely responsible if the town is run dry of resources, if they are all left trapped in eternal winter, drowning in coldness that most can’t bear (Jongdae knows he couldn’t, not if Minseok’s reassurance and warmth wasn’t so delightful.) He can’t continue to avoid his mother, especially when she knows all of the secrets he’d tried to conceal, when she is still angry with him, when it would be devastating to know that her son chose love over everyone else. 

He blames whatever paired them together cosmically the most, but Minseok’s persistence, his refusal to leave, is what keeps their fragile nothing together. Jongdae is afraid to lose what they have, even if it’s odd and tiny and barely even there, even if he will never be able to live as his family has hoped. 

_ Dreadful,  _ he thinks. It is absolutely horrid to be the one who makes such a decision, even if he knows the best decision to make is also the one he wants to avoid most resolutely. As he approaches the forgotten cottage, he knows that he will leave with a heavy heart and a secure future for the village, that he will sacrifice this miniscule happiness for those who raised him. 

He makes it five feet from the shoddily-covered entrance (thick, dark yellow fabric he’d bought from Baekhyun’s embroidery shop years ago and never used) before he notices that something is wrong. There are two voices from the cottage, both male, and Jongdae hates that he recognizes both instinctively -- the wind is knocked out of him as he hurries to push aside the curtain and step between them. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Jongin looks up from where he’s squatting on the floor of the cottage, and, oddly, he looks relieved. Minseok is there too, sat next to him comfortably, and neither looks angry or embarrassed -- Jongdae blinks twice. 

“You’ve been disappearing for hours at a time, and I  _ know _ you. We grew up together -- only a few years apart, Jongdae -- I can  _ tell _ when something is happening. I followed you to see where you always were.” 

For a moment, it is pure silence, and the sounds of the forest are amplified, the animals and wind deafening.  _ He will tell mother, and I will never see them again, and the village will throw me out. I will ruin my own life for a hopeless reason, for a love that I tried to escape. _

“It wasn’t -- this wasn’t what I was expecting to find,” Jongin is stuttering as he climbs to his feet, inching forward, tall and awkward and so, so missed. “I was angry at first, but he told me it all,  _ showed _ me it all. You thought you could get away with living a fairytale and not telling me? You want the magic spirit all to yourself?” 

There is a joke in his question, and Jongdae breaks completely at this familiarity, at the kind way he handles it all, at the way he still feels like his younger brother, despite the situation and weeks of avoidance. 

“Stop it,” Jongdae swats at him, and Jongin doesn’t even try to avoid the hit, smile bright when he realizes that things can be normal again. “You’re insufferable.” 

Minseok is smiling in the corner of his eye, though Jongdae is trying to avoid looking at him -- he knows he might actually cry if he does, and he wants to avoid that as much as possible, at least for now. The ramshackle living room they stand in suddenly feels like home. 

“Will you --” Jongdae pauses, worry making its way back into his mind, a lingering fear for the town, for his relationships, for the future. “What will you do?” 

“I will tell mother and the village, and it will be fine -- if it’s not, we all three will leave, and I shall be Minseok’s magical apprentice,” at this, Minseok stands finally -- Jongdae gravitates to him, relishing in the cool familiarity of his touch. “The nomadic option isn’t ideal, but I have thought it over, and I don’t want to be where you can’t love someone openly. You would do the same for me.” 

He laughs through the start of tears, joyous in ways he cannot express, hopeful for a future full of Minseok’s love and his village’s success.

\--

Their cottage in the woods is beautiful when it is completed. 

Though the work is slow, Chanyeol and Sehun help to rebuild it, adding extra rooms, heat-conductive flooring, and windows that let in all the sunlight possible. There is a trellis in the front yard that holds all of Jongdae’s most resilient plants high above the chilled ground, and Sehun brags about how good his work looks everytime he sees either one of them in town. It’s rather endearing, and Minseok has taken to looking for Sehun while they are out just in case he can convince him to build another bookcase when he is free. 

Baekhyun fashions the most delicate curtains for each window, and the quilts he and Kyungsoo create are soft and thermal, enough to keep Jongdae warm even as Minseok holds him close to sleep. Jongdae invites them both over to eat frequently because, truly, he enjoys their company -- and he is also trying his best to learn how to embroider, just so Minseok will have something of his to keep for as long as he exists. 

Kyungsoo thinks it’s a rather sweet sentiment, and Chanyeol agrees when he’s there, for he always agrees with Kyungsoo. One day, Minseok is sure, those two will build their own cottage -- Jongdae agrees, as he always does. 

His mother takes more convincing from Jongin than most, but when she finally pays a visit, her offering of home cooked food is kind enough that Jongdae must excuse himself to cry silently in relief -- when he returns, Minseok and his mother are talking with tiny smiles on their faces, and Jongdae could ask for nothing better. 

The village is patient with them, but there are solutions to be found, and the pair do not want to wait any longer to stop posing such a burden on their loved ones, on the people who accepted them so willingly, so kindly. 

It takes a few months for Jongdae and Minseok to perfect it, but they learn the best way to brew a concoction from a refined mix of Jongdae’s herbs and Minseok’s warmest magic -- it takes the form of a thick, clear liquid smelling of pine needles, and it allows  _ everything _ to grow normally despite the colder temperatures. 

(“Spring in a bottle,” Minseok calls it jokingly, and Jongdae kisses away the stupid smile on his face. When Jongdae brings up the ridiculous name while picking up produce in the market, Yixing reassures that a name like that  _ would _ sell pretty well, and that Jongdae is welcome back at the medicine shop whenever he has the time. He will always say yes to that.) 

After a rather chilly spring and summer pass, Jongdae finally figures out how to incorporate Minseok’s magic with his select plants to form a lilac paste -- they paint their fence with it, and the village is no longer affected by Minseok’s presence. It matches some of the bushes that Jongdae has always wanted to surround their house, so maybe there are multiple battles being won with that one.

To outsiders, the couple is a pair of healers who will make magic potions for the right person and the right price, the only shop of their kind. To the village, they are a pair of fools who grow flowers and read their days away, absorbed in each other and nature. 

To those who come after them, they are known as legends and common folktales. Children learn the story of the boy who bewitched a spirit with his voice and dance, and their love lives on in songs to be sung at the winter festival, in ballads that narrate the devotion of a healer and the spirit of winter brought together by destiny -- Jongdae and his immortal lover, Minseok.


End file.
